Aftermath
by LegalBlonde
Summary: "Welcome back to earth. Feel free to, you know, breathe, and we have thirty seconds to meet the vans downstairs." Post-Phase One. COMPLETE.
1. Sydney

Author: LegalBlonde

Email: legalblonde2005@yahoo.com

Classification: Vignette, Romance S/V

Rating: PG (language)

Disclaimers:  They're not mine.  Not even Vaughn.  

Author's Note: "Phase One" post-ep.  Syd POV.  Currently a vignette, I'm hoping it will evolve into a longer story detailing the full aftermath of this unbelievable episode.  

-------

"Guys? Asses?  Kicked?"  

Somewhere in the back of my mind, it registers that Weiss is talking, and somewhere in the front of my mind, it registers that I don't give a damn.  The only rational thought I've been capable of for the last three minutes is _why_ _haven't we been doing this for the last year?  _

Kissing Vaughn is, shockingly, better than I expected.  As a matter of fact, he's just permanently redefined the norms of kissing.  Damn, I love this man.  

We pull apart slowly, reluctantly, and I realize it's going to take a while to find my way back to reality.  He flashes me the most dazzling smile I've ever seen from him, and I know I'm grinning like a giddy 13-year-old.  Again, I don't care.  I'm too busy mentally calculating the precise number of seconds until we get to do this again.  

He finds his voice first.  "We should, um, find the others."

"Yeah."  Brilliant, Syd.  Let's hope you don't have win him over with your verbal finesse.

He starts out toward the door, stepping over an overturned file cabinet.  He offers me his hand, even though I don't need the help.  I take it, step over, and neither one of us lets go.  

My toe comes into contact with the remnants of a desk.  My desk.  I freeze for a moment.  The trip back to reality is neither long nor pleasant.  Vaughn feels me stiffen; I realize I have a death grip on his hand.  "Sydney –"

I shake my head.  "Don't."  He gives me that half-nod and his brow creases in concern.  I draw in a deep breath, step over my (former) desk, and slowly follow him out.  

We step through the door to find a grinning Weiss.  

"Welcome back to earth.  Feel free to, you know, breathe, and we have thirty seconds to meet the vans downstairs.  We've got four evidence teams on the way to clean this place out and Kendall wants everyone back ten minutes ago for debrief."  

He starts down the stairs, taking them two at a time. 


	2. Vaughn

Author's Note:  Sincere thanks to everyone who left feedback; you guys motivated me to keep going.  So here's the plan: this story will be a series of vignettes detailing the events of the night through the eyes of different characters.  This is Vaughn's turn…

I'm still holding Sydney's hand as we exit the stairwell into the parking garage below.  About fifteen agents are milling around three vans, and we self-consciously pull our hands away at the same moment.  She looks over at me and almost smiles.  Then her eyes widen – did I mention she has gorgeous eyes? – and I realize she's looking past me.  A medic just stepped out of the first van and Sydney hurries over to him.  They talk for a moment and she goes up to the half-open side door, leaning in as far as she can, with her legs balanced against the running board.  

It must be Jack – I feel like I should check in on him, too.  Probably better to wait; he needs a minute alone with Sydney.  Don't we all.  

Ok, I'm stopping right there.  There's time for all of that soon enough.  

Soon enough.  Did I think I would ever hear those words in relation to her?  A smile creeps back to my face.  I haven't started – don't want to start – thinking about the amazing havoc Sydney is going to wreak on my life.  There are more problems, questions and loose ends than I can count, one of which has blonde hair and possessive tendencies.  The smile creeps back off may face.  

Sydney steps back out of the van and walks over to me, with a brilliant smile.  Not quite as bright as the one she gave me upstairs, but still pretty damn good.  

"The medics think Dad should be fine in a couple of days, no danger of permanent damage.  He just needs rest.  He, of course, disagrees with them."  I smile as she glances back over her shoulder.  That sounds about right. "They want to take him into the hospital for observation, and he's agreeing to stay there overnight."

"Under duress?"

"Of course.  He's already threatened to have three of them removed from their posts."  

"He must be feeling better."  We exchange another smile, and I'm fighting the temptation to create an instant replay of what happened upstairs, in front of everybody.  

She breaks the gaze and looks over her shoulder.  "We should probably get in the van."  

"Yeah."  Nice, Vaughn.  Be sure to list "eloquence" on your resume.  

The dark van is lined with long benches down the sides and the center is littered with discarded gear, jackets and facemasks.  Especially the facemasks.  I'm not the only one who hates those things.  I'm wedged between Sydney – no complaints here – and another agent who I'm pretty sure is named Jackson.  Jackson needs to lose weight.  And shower.  

As we pull out of the garage onto the surface streets, Sydney's gaze is fixed outside the window, watching the Credit Dauphine building slip away, perhaps for the last time.  She rests her elbow at the base of the window and her cheek on her hand, which is clenched in a fist.  I want so badly to know what she's thinking, what's making her body tense and her gaze focus on something I can't see.  I want to wrap my arms around her and let her cry until she's ready to stop, and still not let go.  I want to ritually burn the CIA protocol manual at my desk.  Maybe Weiss will help.  

We're hardly through the doors before we're surrounded – the rest of the team, other agents, support personnel, even Kendall – they're exchanging congratulations and slapping each other's backs and shouting out news and anecdotes so quickly that it makes Ops Center sound like the floor of the stock exchange.  Sydney is pulled away from my side and enveloped in the crowd, surrounded by so many well-wishers I can hardly see her.  Too soon, Kendall's voice booms over the crowd.  

"We need the entire mission team and all agents in Central Conference two minutes from now.  All support personnel at their desks; we've got a long night ahead of us.  Good work, from everyone.  Don't be late."  He turns on his heel and walks out, the babble dies down a bit as the rest of us reluctantly proceed.  


	3. Will

Author's Note:  Will's turn.

************************

Room 52 of the Shady Daze motel.  I feel like I'm in the middle of a bad episode of the X-Files.  But this is life, this is real.  This is my life, anyway.  Sometimes it doesn't feel real at all.  

I pick up the cell phone lying on the bed for the fifth time in six minutes.  I check for missed calls.  I check the battery.  I make sure it's set to ring.  It doesn't ring.  I continue pacing.  

One time the paper published a report on this study where they found that the pitch used for ring tones is the same level as squealing tires.  Which is probably why I jerk to a stop and almost trip over the bed when the cell phone finally does ring.  Damn Nokia.  My hand is shaking when I pick it up.  Syd's number flashes on the screen.  Thank God.  

 "Hi, Syd?"  At the other end, she lets out her breath so quickly that I hear a loud sigh.  It didn't hit me she would be as worried about us as I have been about her.  

"Will, where are you?"  I glance over the tiny room, which is painted a lovely shade of avocado green.

"At a very sketchy motel a couple hours west of there.  Syd, what's going on?"

Her voice sounds distant for a minute, like she's turned away from the phone.  

"I'll be there in just a minute…Will and Francie…I will...thank you."  She turns back to the phone.  "Is Francie with you?"  

"No, she's –"

"_No?_"  Her tone tells me I'm about to face the wrath of Sydney.  Not a good thing.  I continue before she has the chance to.  

"She's okay, I just talked to her like, ten minutes ago."  I hear another loud sigh. 

"Where is she?"

"In her car, on her way here.  She left L.A. not long after I did."

"What happened?"

I shake my head, but realize that probably doesn't communicate much over the phone.  "I don't know; it was kind of weird.  As soon as I hung up with you, I called her at the restaurant.  I just told her she needed to come back to the apartment, quick, that we had to get out of town and that I would explain everything when she got here.  She didn't want to come at first, she sounded kind of panicked.  For a minute I thought – " My voice stops working on me.  Eight months, and I still have a hard time saying it out loud.  "– that maybe she thought – "

But I'm talking to the one person who understands. 

"Will, I'm sorry."

"No, no it's okay.  She's okay, I mean."  My voice is back.  "I told her not to go anywhere, I was coming to get her, but then she called back like, two minutes later, all calm, and told me it was ok, she was leaving straight from there and she would meet me wherever I asked her.  So I told her what highway to take and that I would call her when I found a place to stay.  I checked in with her just a few minutes ago.  She'll be here soon.  Syd?"

"Yes?"

"What the hell is going on?"  

She pauses for a moment, like she's not sure what to tell me.  I wonder if that's because she _can't _tell me.  I hate the CIA.  

"It's over."  She says it in one breath out, like her voice is about to crack. 

"What's over?  Are you sure you're ok?"  

Her voice does crack a little as she answers.  

"Yeah, I'm great.  It's over.  SD-6, Will, it's gone.  And the whole alliance – we raided the office an hour ago.  All the offices.  There were teams all over the world, we have all the reports in – it's over."  

I sit down on the bed.  Hard.  I'm hearing things.  This is what the CIA does to you.  I'm hearing voices.  

But it's the voice I don't hear that reassures me.  Sydney is still on the other end of the line, but she's stopped speaking, and I hear the soft, unmistakable sounds of a woman in tears.  She's serious.  She's really serious.  They're gone.  It's over.  _They're gone.  It's over.  _The words repeat in my head, like a song I just can't get rid of.  Like hearing them enough I can make it real.  About a minute goes by before I can finally speak.  

"Are you serious?  I mean, they're gone, just like that?"

Her voice is almost a whisper.  "Yeah, just like that.  Pretty unbelievable, huh?"

"Yeah, unbelievable."  My voice is flat, and I'm numb.  Gone.  Over.  Unbelievable.  "So, this – you're – _we're_ done then, we're free?"  I'm asking, but I'm still not sure I comprehend what those words mean.  

"Yeah, I think we are."

"Wow, I don't know what to – just, wow."  There's silence on both ends for a minute, like we're both just trying to make sure this is for real.  

"Look, Will, I've to go, there's a debrief – "

I snap back to reality.  "Yeah, yeah, definitely, go ahead.  Call me back when you can."  

"I will."

"Hey, and Syd?  Thank you.  For everything.  Thank you."  For a minute, I think she's going to start crying again.

"You're welcome.  And call me when Francie gets there.  I want to make sure she's okay."

"Okay."  The phone beeps and goes silent.  

Unbelievable.  Absolutely unbelievable.  I'm frozen in place, trying to make myself believe what I just heard.  SD-6 is gone.  I've dreamed about hearing those words, not for as long or as often as Sydney has, but I've dreamed them.  Everything I've given up.  Everything that's happened.  And it's gone.  It worked.  It really happened.  They're gone.  

I couldn't tell you how much time passes before there's a knock on the door, and I jerk back to reality so quickly I almost fall off the bed.  

I cross to the peach-colored door and squint through the tiny peephole.  I gasp in relief myself when I see who's outside.  I slide back the chain and jerk open the door.  She doesn't have time to respond, or speak, or even step inside before I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair.  

"Francie, I'm just so glad you're okay."


	4. Jack

Author's Note:  I have attempted to make all the time periods match up, but if I have made any major mistakes, please email legalblonde2005@yahoo.com, and I will make the appropriate corrections.  

Jack's turn.

**************************

They're keeping me here overnight.  There are four heart monitor patches taped to my chest and a cuff reads my blood pressure every five minutes.  The television in my room is tuned to some inane sitcom, thankfully someone had the good sense to mute it.  If I strain I can hear the conversation of the nurses at their station outside.  The name on my chart reads Martin Woltham and it says I work, of course, for the state department.  

The last doctor here threatened to keep me in restraints it I didn't stop insisting I should go home.  This is ridiculous.  There will be important debriefs going on all night and I will be strapped to a hospital bed flipping through channels waiting for one of them to miraculously turn into CNN.  

I've been waiting almost twenty years for this night, and I will spend it alone.  

Twenty years.  Sydney was seven, Laura – Irina – was gone, and I had just been released from solitary confinement.  Sloane called me to talk.  We met out in the desert near the oil wells, a spot we had used with an informant once before.  He proposed a plan, called it a business venture, and asked if I cared to join.  He said he had made certain alliances, that there was profit and power to be gained if we could work in a forum not bound by the restrictions of the CIA.  

I agreed.  My disillusionment with my wife and with a government that had turned on me was more than sufficient motivation.  We started out simply.  I took early retirement from the CIA – something they were more than willing to give – and started working for Sloane.  

But as the years passed I became as disillusioned with the Alliance as I had once been with the CIA.  Sloane's baser instincts were becoming more apparent, and I had seen more of his ruthlessness than I care to think about.  

Sydney was the last straw.  We had set it up years ago – the CIA would contact her during her third year of college, recruiting her into a job as soon as she graduated.  But Sloane, without consulting me, without so much as _telling_ me, brought her in at 19.  _Nineteen._  She was a child.  I didn't even know about it until she was field-ready.  The day Sloane told me was the day the last thread of my allegiance to him snapped.  I covertly contacted an old friend from the CIA, saying I wanted back in.  

That was eight years ago.  Eight years, dozens of missions, hundreds of covert meetings and more lost lives than I care to count.  Eight years, and I'm lying in a hospital bed on a Tuesday night recovering from my second trip to the conversation room in as many weeks.  And SD-6 is gone.  

The victory feels hollow, empty somehow.  Partially it's the shock of it being over.  But primarily it's Sloane.  No victory over the Alliance is complete without a victory over the man who has held far too much influence over my life for far too long.

It's the ultimate irony.  In what I hope will be his last act, he disappeared one week before we won the victory we've worked years to achieve.  One week.  It's possible I resent him more for that act than for anything he's done before.  One week.

I have a daughter who is beginning to know me, a wife who's been given the chance to undo some of the devastation she has caused, and a career as a double agent that has just become one of the most successful in the history of the CIA.  

And I am lying in a hospital bed, with four heart monitor patches taped to my chest.  


	5. Weiss

Author's note:  Of course, Weiss gets a turn, too.

*****************************

Vaughn slid me a note during the briefing.  I oh-so-patiently reminded him this is the CIA, not junior high, and he said after the whole "flirting corner" thing I had no room to talk.  Figures.  I try to help out a friend who, let's face it, really needs the help, and that's the thanks I get.  

But what really pisses me off is what's on the note.  

At the top, it says 555-4657.  It's the number of the cute analyst who works on the third floor.  After we got back from France, I told Vaughn that if he would grow a pair and finally make a move on Sydney, I'd ask the analyst out by the end of the week.  

Underneath, he wrote 6, 19, and 12, which are the number of days, hours, and minutes I have left on that bet.   

Underneath that, I've just added 14, which is the number of minutes I've spent with Marshall J. Flinkman, trying to decide whether his first phone call should be to his mother.  

"I don't want to worry her, you know, since she had that heart thing, it's like 'Hi, mom, I'm not really in jail but I'm not really not, either, it's at – no, Mom, you don't need to call a lawyer – I'll be ok, yes, Mom, no, don't call Aunt Lucy to the phone – Hi, Aunt Lucy....'  I don't want it to be like _that_, but she'll worry in a couple days if she hasn't heard from me.  She thinks I'm in Phoenix.  I was working on a picture of myself inside Sundevil Stadium.   It's on my computer at work – will I be able to get my computer at work?"  

At this point, Marshall takes the unprecedented step of pausing for breath.  At least, I think that's what it was.  He stopped for a millisecond so I just jumped in.  

"Evidence has got the computer files right now extracting everything they can.  I don't know yet when or if you'll be able to get them back."

"Okay.  Yeah.  Okay."  Poor guy looks shell-shocked.

"Marshall, I know this is happening too fast, but you've got the chance to work for the good guys now.  Based on what we've gathered from SD-6 and what our agents have told us, we can recruit you directly into the CIA.  Your tech skills are very valuable and, if you're willing, you could be key in analyzing the data we recover from the SD-6 offices."

"What exactly would I be doing?  It's kind of weird, I was working for the CIA, but I really wasn't and now I am – have you ever seen that movie, the Matrix?  You know when Neo wakes up and it's all blurry and he doesn't know where he is and there's the really attractive woman.  It's kind of like that, except without the attractive part." He glances up and looks genuinely embarrassed.  "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's just, you're not a woman, and –"

"I think I get the idea."  

"And I wouldn't be working for Mr. Sloane anymore.  He was really a great boss.  After I got him that tie, when Sydney and I got back from Mexico City, I got it to say thinks for rescuing me.  And he said thank you when I gave it to him, and how relieved he was to have me back.  That was before he left – where, uh, where is Mr. Sloane?"

This time he really pauses, and I go back to staring at my legal pad.  It's like telling a child his father's a criminal.  It doesn't seem right.  I take a deep breath.

"We don't know where he is right now.  He disappeared from the Alliance a week ago."  

He looks up sharply, alarmed.  "You don't think he's part of the Alliance – you don't think, he's, you know…"

I tap a pen on the desk for a minute before I meet his eyes.  "Our intelligence tells us he is.  I'm sorry, I know it's a shock, but this is a secret he managed to keep from everyone.  Even his wife."

Marshall just stares down at the desk, stunned.  Like I said, shell-shocked.  

"Do, uh, do you think it would be a good idea to call my mom?  I know I couldn't tell her much, you know, all the secrecy and the covert information.  But she would feel better if she knew where I was, and I could tell her, you know, everything is a little weird right now, but don't worry, Mom, everything will be okay.  Really.  That's –"  He glances up at me. "That's not classified.  Do you think so?"

"I'll get the phone."


	6. Syd, Take Two

Author's Note: Syd gets two turns, because I said so.  Dixon's getting the short end of the stick here, I don't feel I know his voice well enough to write a chapter for him.  Kudos to Carl Lumbly for leaving me absolutely speechless with his portrayal.  This is the wrap-up of the Syd and Vaughn angle; the last installment will be a view from the dark side.  

**********************

The debriefing finally ended an hour ago.  I never knew someone as laconic as Kendall could drone on for so long.  The man is a walking adrenaline antidote.  

I'm not the only one who thinks so.  Vaughn is sitting at his desk across the aisle from me, scrolling through hundreds of files the evidence team has already sent over from SD-6.  Despite the mask of intense concentration, I can see his head drooping further and further toward the computer screen.  He's leaning on his hand, which is slowly inching upward into his hair, making it even more tousled than usual.    
 

His eyes finally slide all the way closed, and his head falls forward until it hits the monitor with a muffled _thunk._  He snaps back awake, glancing around guiltily to see who noticed.  I can't help it.  I laugh out loud.  

"I'd be mad, but that's the first time I've heard you laugh all week."  And with that, he's managed to wipe the smile off my face.  He's right.  I have plenty _not_ to laugh about.  

"Hey, I didn't mean you had to stop."  The patented Creases of Concern are back.  Sometimes it's comforting he knows me so well, sometimes it's just plain annoying.  

"No, it's just…" I break off and shake my head.  "It's a lot."  Again, verbal finesse.  

He gives me a sympathetic frown and stands up abruptly.  "I'll be back in a second."

He walks away from his desk and disappears into the nearest hallway.  I stare down at the files that are supposed to be consuming my attention.  They are, just in the wrong way.  At the top is a newly-minted manila folder, with the name DIXON, Marcus R., printed neatly on the label.  The wound tears a little deeper every time I read that name.  

I would love to say I can't imagine what he's going through right now, but the problem is, I can.  I can remember what it felt like to know everything I had worked for was a lie, to know I'd given six years of my life to the very enemies I was hoping to destroy. How many has it been for Dixon?  Fifteen?  Twenty?  I wanted so badly to reassure him, to thank him, to show him it really would be okay, that there is life – a better life – after you've learned the truth.  

But he turned away from me.  And as much as that hurt, as much as it tore my heart, I don't blame him.  If anything, I admire his restraint.  I can't say I would do as well in his position.  

Kendall wants me to be his handler.  I managed to convince him what a terrible idea that was.  He's considering assigning Vaughn instead, or perhaps my father.  There's no need to make the decision immediately; no one's going to talk to him tonight.  Or more accurately, he's not talking to anyone.  He needs some time to let it sink in before he's ready to consider the next move.  

"Come with me for a minute."  I jump at the sound of Vaughn's voice and the gentle touch on my arm.  Without a word, I stand up to follow him down the narrow hallway and around a corner.  At the end of the hall, he opens the door and I see he's managed to commandeer a small, bare conference room.  It's purely functional, with a round folding table, empty walls and three straightbacked chairs.  But it has no window into the bullpen, which makes it useful.  He moves aside to let me in first, then closes the door behind us with a soft click.  

"Are you okay?"  It's a dumb question, but a welcome one.  I lean back against the flimsy table and study the gray industrial carpet.  

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Sydney."  He's managed to turn my name into a reproach.  

"Vaughn– "  I bite my lip before I can even start.  I can feel the tears beginning in my eyes and snap them shut.  I hate it when I do this.  

But for once, it has its rewards.  He steps forward and wraps his arms around me, and I hide my face against his neck, my tears falling against his soft skin.  I want to stay here, not to move, to reciprocate by wrapping my arms back around him and standing here, like this, the rest of the night.  

But now is not the time.  I will have the chance to cry later, to let it all out.  But now there is still too much to do.  

I tear myself away (and believe me, tear is the right word) and wipe my eyes on the cuff of my shirt. 

"I don't know what to think.  I should be so happy, and I am, I am, it's just there's Dixon, and Marshall, and Dad—"

"It's okay, Sydney.  You've been through a lot tonight."  The creases are back.  "Look, why don't you go home?  Everything's calming down around here, there's nothing that can't wait until you've got a couple hours sleep."

"You know I can't.  Kendall's keeping everyone here until further notice, I can't just leave and desert the team."

"Sydney, you _are_ the team.  You made this all happen.  None of this – none of this – would have been possible without you.  Nobody here is going to begrudge you a couple hours sleep."  

It's not his words that persuade me so much as his tone.  He looks so earnest, so determined, that I forget why I would want to argue with him.  I stand up off the desk, straighten my shirt and square my shoulders.

"Can you have somebody let me out the bridge entrance?"

"I can, but you don't need to."  He flashes me another lopsided grin.

A smile spreads across my face.  He's right.  I can leave.  I don't have to call anyone.  No code words, no cover, no elaborate jog through the park.  I can walk right out the front door.  My grin grows even broader.  Goal number one: learn to control goofy 12-year-old smile.  

"Before you go, I want to give you something."  He steps around me, reaches under the table, and retrieves what looks like a set of rolled-up blueprints.  He slowly slides the rubber band off, the I-am-so-proud-of-myself smile growing wider by the minute.  It would be annoying if it weren't so damn sexy.  

He places the papers on the table, holding down the free edge with his thumb, and slowly unrolls it.  It takes up the entire width of the table.  

"Remember this?"

"Yeah, I remember."  The twelve-year-old grin is back.  On paper in front of me is the CIA's master map of the Alliance.  Its believed extent, the red marks for assets we'd been able to eliminate, the complex set of lines connecting the whole thing.  The map Vaughn showed me at our first covert meeting.  

"You want me to frame it?"  

"No." I try to keep the teasing note out of my voice, but it's not going to work. Too bad.  He earned it.  "But could you show me what a paper bag looks like again?"

He lets the paper go and it rolls back over itself with a snap.  He's around the table in a second, cups my face in his hands, and gives me the second mind-altering kiss of the night.  I could get used to this.  I mean, I could really, really get used to this.  And if Weiss shows up again, I swear I will make certain the analyst upstairs never speaks to him again. 

It's a blessedly long several minutes before we pull apart.  I'm really not sure how our arms got tangled around each other, but at this point noticing details is not my strong suit.  

"Sydney, we need to talk." Uh-oh.  Serious Vaughn is back. I start to respond, but he presses his finger to my lips.  "Not now.  I mean, we can, but I thought you might want to get some sleep first.  There are – things to be said.  And lots to figure out."

I nod in acquiescence, pulling his hand away and wrapping mine around it.  "You're right.  There are…things to be said."  His gaze is as intense as my own, and for a moment neither if us moves.  "Things will be different soon," I whisper.  He nods, and touches my cheek with his free hand.  

"You're right.  Things will be very different."  


	7. A View from the Other Side

It takes patience, to sit here day after day, to lie in wait while plans spun years ago finally take shape, and form, and turn to action.

It takes discipline, too.  Discipline to hide my emotions.  To keep secret what I would rather scream out.  To smile at insipid conversations and parcel out what I know, piece by tiny piece.  Discipline, to pretend to love a man I don't, and pretend not to love the one I do.  

But patience and discipline are rewarded.  They think I don't know.  I'm sure there will be a breathless agent down here, sooner or later, to tell me in insulting generalities of the great victory they won today.  As if by locking me behind glass I cannot see outside.

The evidence is everywhere.  The contingent of guards is scant, the smallest since I've been here.  The muffled sounds of footsteps above have come and gone in pounding waves.  They even forgot my allotted half-hour of exercise today.  

Inexperienced people think the world is black and white.  They see right, they see wrong, they believe I must be either a penitent or a villain.  Agent Vaughn sees it that way, I can tell.  He has that eager, boy-scout intensity and the fire in his eyes.  He reminds me of Jack in that way.  They weren't so different, thirty years ago.  

But thirty years have come and gone, and through all the reversals and betrayals Jack has come to see the world as I see it, not as a place populated by white knights and black hats, but as a place of opportunity.  It's simple, really.  You love those you can, and you do the things that will ensure them a better life.  If you're good at it, you'll win a few victories for yourself along the way.  

That's how you come to understand a man like Arvin Sloane.  I knew what he was thirty years ago, moments after I met him.  Others have found him deceptive, multifaceted, but I could read him from the start.  It takes one to know one, I suppose.  

One thing Sloane _isn't_ is unpredictable.  In any situation, he's guaranteed to act in pure, unadulterated self-interest.  And heaven help the person who tries to put him between a rock and a hard place.  He'll just blow up the whole situation (often literally) and start over with his own rules.  That's what makes him an ideal associate.  He is brilliant, resourceful, and easily manipulated.  

Sark is a different creature.  I've sensed in him qualities of loyalty and originality, the things that make him a trusted friend and associate.  Time will tell whether he sticks to the plan I've given him or attempts to branch out on his own.  

My organization, far from flopping aimlessly with its leader gone, has grown and spread, and, with the Alliance out of the way, will soon become as profitable, and as powerful, as we've hoped.  

But only a fool would think I'm motivated by simple money or influence.  Jack would paint it that way, ignoring his own misgivings to pretend I'm as one-dimensional as he'd like me to be.  Vaughn would, too, and who could blame the little boy who lost his father?

What frightens me, truly keeps me awake at night, is the fear Sydney might believe the same.  That after the time we've spent together, she would think I would treat all of it, all the progress we've made, so lightly.  

How could I ever do that?  Trade in my own daughter?  I meant it when I said I'd waited almost thirty years for a single moment.  To see her, the beautiful, strong woman she's become, has been worth every deception, every lie, every disgusting alliance I've had to make.  

She wants to be free.  I see it in her proud eyes, the way her shoulders slump at the end of the day, the way she tenses when I mention Vaughn's name.  She dreams of a normal life, of a home, of a family, of a cluttered office in the Humanities Department piled high with the great works of literature.  She dreams of being with the man she loves.  She dreams of being a woman, not a spy, not an agent, not a boss or an underling, but a woman, and of being with people who can see her that way.  I know.  I dreamed it myself once.  You could say I am selfish in that regard – I want to give Sydney the life I never had.  

I want it so badly I was willing to cut a deal with Arvin Sloane for it.  Our one term, the one condition of our deal, was that Sydney would go untouched.  My greatest fear is that he will not honor it.  But such deals must be made; such chances must be taken.  

I did it for Sydney.  To give her victory, to set her free.  What hurts the most is that I have given my daughter everything she's ever wanted.

And she can never know.  


End file.
